


the happy hour of assault and the kiss

by AnnaofAza



Category: Kingsman (Movies) RPF
Genre: Fake Hate Sex, M/M, Minor Angst, Roleplay, Secret Relationship, Sneaking Around
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 20:24:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9341759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: “Good,” Taron mutters lowly, still mindful of the driver, who’s just turned on the radio. “Because Iloatheyou.”Colin looks at him challengingly. “Well, I loathe you, too,” he counters, but the heat in his gaze is unmistakable.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a scenario Scandalmuss and I were joking about with: in which Colin and Taron secretly hate each other, but pretend to like each other for the cameras. As you can probably see from the first sentence, this fic was written a while ago and should have been posted in 2016, but...at least it's here now?
> 
> The title comes from a line in Pablo Neruda's "The Song of Despair." (And Colin likes him, too!)

At the Toronto International Film Festival, surrounded by chatting celebrities in a dimly-lit room with a chocolate fountain and a tired-looking DJ, Taron pulls out his mobile. Grinning at the latest text, he quickly replies, then starts for one of the exits. The party’s crowded, with laughter and drinks flowing freely, and Taron has to dodge several trays full of champagne and avoid bumping his hip into a table with its entire surface crammed with candy and cheeses and cold cuts.

“Hey, Taron, going home already?” someone asks, and Taron shrugs apologetically.

“Haven’t gotten proper sleep in months,” he says.

“You’re too young to be so tired!” his co-star sighs, but waves him off. “Get some rest; you’ll be back tomorrow!”

Taron nods back, slipping out and trying his best to dodge reporters who want one last word or photograph, but manages to get into one of the cabs idling by the sidewalk. Collapsing into the seat, Taron sighs in exhaustion and relief, then turns to take a look at who he’s sharing the ride with, quickly turning his frown into a look of utmost impassiveness.

Colin’s sitting there, chin up and eyes bored behind the glasses, and tells the driver the address of their hotel. He ignores Taron, looking out his window as the city passes by, so Taron follows suit, crossing his arms. Two can play at that game.  

Low enough so the driver won’t hear, Taron says, “You’ve been looking really tired lately. Too much work for you?”

Colin sniffs. “Not enough for you? Do you need to be assigned more work so you don’t make these childish passive-aggressive comments?”

Leaning back and crossing his legs, Taron rolls his eyes. “Oh, deflecting again. Typical. You know what? I’m sick of pretending to be a gentleman around _you.”_

Stiffening, Colin replies, voice gone cool, “And has it ever occurred to you that I feel the same way?”

“Good,” Taron mutters lowly, still mindful of the driver, who’s just turned on the radio. “Because I _loathe_ you.”

Colin looks at him challengingly. “Well, I loathe you, too,” he counters, but the heat in his gaze is unmistakable. Taron knows because it matches his own perfectly, as he refuses to look away. Colin’s suit is spotless and stiff, like it’s been freshly ironed, and every hair is in place, smoothed back and drawing attention to the rigid, black frames perched on his nose. His tie, which Taron had forgone, is perfectly straight, and the sight of Colin, so put together, makes Taron want to mess it all up, ruin the impeccable, spotless image of a gentleman—

“Your hotel, sirs,” the driver interrupts, and giving him their thanks, as well as some folded bills, both exit the cab and head to the hotel.

The lobby is mostly empty—most are still at the after-parties—so Taron and Colin head right for the elevator. Taron jabs the floor number when Colin steps in, and turns his back to him, staring directly at the mirrored walls. Colin, doing the same, gives out a little huff.

The ride up is completely silent, until the bell dings, with a light flashing near the ceiling.

They're on their floor.

Taron nods curtly to Colin as he steps out of the elevator. “Good night, then.”

Colin nods back, equally aloof. “Good evening to you as well.”

With that, they march down to their separate rooms—across the hall from each other—and lightly slam the doors behind them.

Taron knows this game, taking the time to plug in his mobile into a charger and quickly wash his hands, while glancing periodically at the time blinking on the lock screen. He texts his mum, telling her he’s going to get some sleep, and turns down the covers of the bed. Sitting down briefly, bouncing on the mattress a bit, Taron swings his legs, wondering if he should take off his jacket, then decides against it.

He fidgets. The television remote is on the nightstand, along with a laminated list of channels. There are three bottles of water clustered on the desk, which has neat stacks of brochures, a hotel binder, and the Wi-Fi password.  Below the television, hidden behind a sliding wooden drawer, is a mini-fridge and microwave, along with a basket of fruit, a small coffee machine, and a few candy bars that cost five times as much as the ones in a gas station.

Taron reaches for the orange, about to dig a thumb nail into the peel, then puts it back. His fingers close around the remote, turn on the television, and flips through the channels, bright colors and murmuring voices coming to to life on the screen. There’s nothing on, mostly news and commercials and movies that are about to end.

With a frustrated sigh, he turns it off, then lets the remote bounce onto the bedspread.  

The alarm clock on the nightstand reads 11:45 P.M.

He can’t wait any longer. Checking first to see if he has his key card, Taron turns off the lights and exits, striding over to Colin’s room.

He knocks on the door.  

Colin opens it, a glass of wine in his hand and a smirk visible on his lips. “I see it took you…” he glances pointedly at the alarm clock on the nightstand, “ten minutes to give in.”

Taron’s gaze flickers to the drink and holds there, refusing to look at the smug expression in front of him. “Give me some of that so I’ll be able to look at your face, Mr. _Hart_.”

Without blinking, the other man’s expression shifts into a subtle sneer, the same one he’d given a gasping Poppy. “I better have another glass, so I will be able to get it up for yours.”

“Oh, you have a hard time with that? Maybe you should take some Viagra.”

Colin—no, _Harry_ —bristles. “Just get in before someone sees us.”

“Right away, _sir,”_ Eggsy sneers, walking in and closing the door firmly behind him. Taking in the hotel room, he unbuttons his jacket, shiny and silver and a bit crumpled, then tosses it carelessly over an armchair. “Well, then, where's my drink?”

“Pour it yourself,” Harry scoffs, taking another sip.

Eggsy rolls his eyes and does what he's told, snatching up the opened bottle from near the telly. “God, you're such an arse.”

Harry sets down his barely-touched glass to begin undoing the buttons on his jacket. “ _Manners_ ,” he reprimands.

Eggsy sighs before taking a big gulp of the wine. “Whatever, Dad.”

Harry stops. “Excuse me?” he asks, low and dangerous.

“You heard me.” Eggsy leans forward, insouciant, grinning widely. _“Dad._ Or do you prefer _old man_?”

Harry’s fingers pause in the middle of slipping a button out from its hole. "Whatever happened to _sir_?" he asks.

“Since this one bothers you a bit more,” Eggsy says. The drink is still in his hand. “Come on, don't be a coward.”

And with that, Harry says, very deliberately, “Put down that glass and get on the fucking bed.”

Eggsy stands there, rocking casually on the balls of his feet. “Make me.”

Harry, despite the loss of vision in his left eye, does a good job of tackling him. Eggsy lets out an _oomph_ , rolling so he slams Harry on his back onto the bed. The wine sloshes, dribbling a little on the carpet, so Eggsy quickly puts it on the nightstand before pulling in Harry’s face and kissing him hard.

It’s almost violent, but gets the point across. Harry reaches up to meet him, as Eggsy digs his fingers into the fluff of Harry’s curls and yanks, just enough to make Harry hiss. His mouth opens wider for Harry and presses harder against his lips, as if he’s trying to suffocate him. He wants to devour Harry, make him see that he can’t leave him again without remembering what they have.

It’s easy as anything to unbutton Harry’s shirt, to slide it off his shoulders, to throw it on the carpet, and to trace his tongue along exposed skin. Harry gasps, then turns his face to muffle it into the pillow, and Eggsy thinks of Harry moaning—wailing, even—loud enough for people to hear, but immediately decides against it. This is for him—him and Harry—and no one else.

But still, he feels that tiny sense of triumph in getting Harry to break first, laying his senses bare.

Harry knows what he’s thinking, judging by the hands practically pulling the buttons off Eggsy’s shirt to reveal bare skin, and running his hands over it, possessive and greedy. It’s his turn to make Eggsy gasp when teeth graze his nipple and those long fingers slip underneath his trousers to rub teasingly over the thin fabric of his boxers. He arches, tugging Harry’s hair even more, and his own hands wander down to Harry’s arse and squeeze.

“Cheeky,” Harry mutters, after a surprised little grunt, and begins to take a hold of Eggsy’s cock, long fingers closing over it expertly, thumb stroking just up and down the side. This time, Eggsy’s the one who gasps out loud, feeling himself begin to leak through the thin fabric—

“Wait,” Eggsy says, then jerks his head over towards the bathroom. “Less mess.”

For a moment, they’re Taron Egerton and Colin Firth again, pausing on a bed miles from home, but in a hotel room where the gossip mill churns when celebrities come to call. As much as the prospect of rolling around on a featherbed mattress is tempting, two years of caution bring it to a halt.

Colin nods, then he’s Harry Hart again, alive and arrogant. “We’ll see about that.”

“God, I missed you, you fucking bastard,” Eggsy hisses. “I missed you so much that I couldn’t—couldn’t believe—”

“I’m here now,” Harry says, a bit softer, then, within a blink, snogs Eggsy within an inch of his life and hoists Eggsy up onto his hip. Eggsy wraps his legs around and clings on tightly so Harry can carry him into the bathroom, putting him down in the tub carefully with a short grunt. He reaches for one of the shower nozzles, and Eggsy slaps a hand around his wrist. “Wait,” he interrupts. “Our clothes.”  

Harry looks down. “Ah, yes,” he mutters, then both of them fumble with their trousers and pants. Eggsy curses when they get tangled around his ankles—he’s still got his shoes and socks on—and Harry practically throws his oxfords onto the tiles before turning on the shower.

The coldness makes Eggsy yelp, but soon, fat drops of heated water begin to pound rhythmically against his skin. Harry’s hair begins to plaster—and Eggsy’s momentarily worried for his glasses, but Harry somehow sneakily deposited them on the sink’s counter—and Eggsy slides his hands up Harry’s chest.  

“Can’t stand the sight of you,” Eggsy continues, trying to find the tendrils of anger and lust and longing again. “But, god, I _want_ you. I want you. I’ve always—”

“Turn around,” Harry interrupts, no room for sentiment. “Put your hands on the wall and bend over.”

Eggsy tilts his head, mindful of the water streaming down his face. “ _Make_ me.”

The bath mat makes things less slippery, but Harry does nearly slip and bang his head, only to find his footing and then be shoved against the wall, Eggsy leaning up and closing his hands around his wrists, bringing them up above his head.

“Gotcha,” he whispers.  

* * *

All too soon, the tap is turned off, towels are employed, and bodies are stretched out, limp and satisfied, underneath the covers.

And suddenly, Taron begins to laugh.

“I do hope this isn’t a judgment of my skills,” Colin says.

“No,” Taron manages between gasps, “but do you really think—Harry and Eggsy—would—”

“Maybe. They did leave off at a somewhat awkward place.” Colin shrugs. “That’s what the fans are for, I suppose.”

“Unless Matthew gets it into his head to make another one.” Taron’s laughter turns into a quiet, amused grin. “We can’t even use this,” he waves his hand between them, “as a method acting excuse.”

“Let me remind you that this was your idea,” Colin says dryly.

“You encouraged it,” Taron protests, then whacks him on the shoulder.

Colin only smiles, leaning in for a kiss—

There’s a sudden burst of loud chatter and drunken mirth, combined with footsteps stumbling down the hallway outside, and they both quickly pull away, keeping completely still, as if someone would burst in any moment. Taron glances at the clothes strewn on the carpet, then pulls up the thin quilt up above his hip.

“I got to go soon,” he whispers. “I wish I could stay, but…”

“I know.” Colin squeezes his bare shoulder. “I know. But I’ll see you tomorrow, then when we’re back home. Livia’s been wanting to get some input on her latest project and take us out for something other than boiled chicken and salad.”

That coaxes a smile out of Taron. “I wish we…” But he stops. He knows what he signed on for when he began this… _thing_ with Colin. No one except Livia knows, and it has to stay that way.

Colin kisses him. “I know,” he says, voice soft. “I love you very much.”

“Me too,” Taron confesses, then slips out of bed reluctantly. Colin helps him pick up his clothes, smoothing them so they don’t look quite so rumpled, until Taron stands in front of him, hair still a bit damp, but with really nothing noticeably off about his appearance.  

“See you later?” he asks, hand on the doorknob.

Colin nods. “See you later,” he echoes, and Taron looks back when he leaves.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the last firtherton fic. The last one. I promise.


End file.
